


They Don't Deserve Him

by ThisIsntFunnyDean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Sam, Dean isn't ready, Hotel Sex, Jealous Dean, M/M, Sam Leaves for Stanford, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisIsntFunnyDean/pseuds/ThisIsntFunnyDean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wall of the hotel is embellished with their last night together, etched in the paint for someone else to find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Don't Deserve Him

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated, but in no way obligatory. Thank you for reading!

There was nothing in the bed with them but the solemn rise and fall of breathing like they’d be robbed of air at any second, the world were ending, or both at once, because they wouldn’t have this tomorrow, or any other day once the sun paints the room a red startlingly close in color to his own blood.  Once boxes get carried away and the harsh exhaust from Sam’s Greyhound will fog his head _just_ enough that he can blame the misty eyes on the fumes.  He shakes his head; he can’t think about that right now.

            Except it’s the only thing playing in his mind when Sam sighs under him and Dean drags the tip of his tongue along his ear to settle in on the hollow of his collarbone.  The prospect grips him; Dean grips harder.  Knuckles white pinning a wrist above Sam’s head.  To imagine the bed colder than it’s been in years, fighting back-to-back with nothing but empty air... He can’t fill a home, much less a room, and he unwittingly bites the moment he feels nauseated with anger, right on Sam’s marble skin, eliciting a soft hiss, and Sam makes an attack of his own.  And almost for a moment does the smell of his dollar store deodorant together with their panting breaths pilfer whatever harrowing prospects his soggy mind can imagine.

            Although it’s four in the morning, at a time of year just turning the world’s edges brown, the pair couldn’t be anymore sweltering.  Fuck, slam open the window, let the dead things burn, let the wind rush in and renew them, because Dean might be able to run but he can’t run from the sunrise, and the motel alarm clock shining florescent green through his eyelids taunts him.  Sam cracks as eye when it shatters against the wall and laughs into Dean’s hair when he settles back over top of him. 

Then it’s the boxes sitting next to the front door; Sam’s hand grasping at Dean’s ribs; the bus ticket waiting on Dean’s dashboard outside; Dean revisiting the endlessness of Sam’s tongue he prayed to; facts and stars and a waning moon proving that time’s still passing.  Never enough.

He’s going to die.

Heart still pumping and eyes still seeing, yes, but, as he shudders from the feel of his roughened hand in Sam’s silken hair, Dean already knows that he will be dead and walking.  So he sucks in as much as he can of the fire from underneath him to store for later, because maybe he can save it for the nights when empty houses threaten to eat him alive, or he’s feeling a little too bold in the dark.

This is a dance both know the music too and all Dean has to do is put himself in step; he’s got the under of Sam’s knee tight in his hand, right next to his face and kisses the skin, there, and there, leans down like a man dying for water and devours Sam’s lips one more time.  A small twist of his hips and Sam gasps against Dean’s mouth, and Dean finally feels ease in his stomach.

The bed is sturdy.  The headboard still smacks the hollow wall, though.

Once.

 _They can’t have him_.

The third time.

 _Because he belongs to me_.

Sixth.

 _And they don’t deserve him_.

Fifteenth.

_Which of us will this ruin more?_

Thirty times.

Sam pounds his head back into the pillow with a short groan that Dean could practically drink through his skin.

Thirty-two.

 _Me.  This is going to ruin me_.

Forty.  Forty-six.  Fifty, with a shiny new dent in the drywall.

Just a second more, and Dean’s like a dam cracking from everything behind it while Sam’s face is open to the universe.   And Dean can feel how close they both are to exploding.  _Who is this going to ruin more?_

Fifty-five.

 _I’m going to die_.

Fifty-seven.

Sam chokes on his words and rolls his eyes and his hand flies faster around himself.

Sixty.

The stars in Dean’s eyes turn to fireworks and he falls down over Sam, feeling the warmth and the wetness between them and he rocks them back and forth till every drop’s expelled and the dam’s run dry.

Sam’s looking at him as though he’s never done a single thing wrong in his life, like the sun doesn’t carry the change of an era.  For just a second he believes it just might not, but realizes Sam’s cheeks are rosy pink and his lips are red as blood, that the walls aren’t colored black and blue as they had been.

Dean looks up and out through the dingy window, and decides he would much rather die after all.

John told Sam not to come back.  And obviously, Dean followed.  In a few hours, though, he’ll be back ‘home’ while Sam drives away at sixty miles an hour.  Dully, Dean asks the voice in his head why everyone he loves has to disappear behind clouds of smoke.


End file.
